User blog:Squibstress/Epithalamium - Chapter 41
Title: Epithalamium Author: Squibstress Rating: MA Genre: Drama, romance Warning/s: Explicit sexual situations; teacher-student relationship (of-age); language, violence Published: 23/05/2017 Disclaimer: All characters, settings and other elements from the Harry Potter franchise belong to J. K. Rowling. Chapter Forty-One "You are a wicked, wicked wizard." "Where are we going?" Minerva asked as soon as she saw Albus at the Apparition spot just outside the school grounds. "Well, good morning to you too, Minerva," said Albus. She responded with a sheepish, "Good morning." Albus gave her a smile. Looking at her bag, he asked, "Do you have everything you need?" "I think so, but of course, it is difficult to be certain when I don't know what our destination is." "Ah, well. Your wait is nearly over. If you'll take my arm, we can be off and sate your curiosity." She did so, and a few moments later, they were standing under a pier opposite a railway station. Albus stood there with a satisfied smile on his face. Minerva looked around. "Perhaps my grasp of geography isn't what it should be, but I still don't know where we are," she said. "Ah. Well, here's a hint: the local Quidditch team won the League Cup in ... 1953, I believe." She thought for a minute, then said, "Portree." "Correct, my dear Professor," he said. "I thought an island holiday might suit us. A man should be at the station in a few moments to pick us up to take us up to Staffin. I told them we were coming in on the nine-forty from Inverness." "It sounds lovely. Thank you." They walked to small station house, and the hotel car arrived shortly as promised. The drive was bumpy but pleasant, affording them some lovely views of the island's dramatic scenery. They were delayed only slightly by a flock of sheep crossing the single-lane road outside of the town. Minerva was delighted by the view from their room. Even in the mist that blanketed them at the moment, the mountains were just visible over the bay, and she couldn't wait to have a go at them on her broom, which she had Shrunk and packed in her small carpetbag. "This is wonderful, Albus. I couldn't think of a nicer holiday," she said, putting her arms around his neck. "I'm glad you approve. Maybe next time you'll trust me when I arrange a surprise." "I certainly will." She kissed him quickly, then said, "Let's have a fly!" "All right. But you must promise to take things slowly for me, all right?" "Of course." An hour later, when they were soaring above the rocky coast of the bay where it met the mountains, Minerva realised that Albus hadn't been exhibiting false modesty. He really was not especially comfortable on a broom. He wobbled quite a bit, and she found she had to slow down considerably from what she would have found a reasonable speed to allow him to keep up with her. He refused to skim the bay with her, choosing instead to follow along behind her a good twenty feet in the air above. When they landed on a small, rocky beach, he said, "I'm sorry to hold you back, my dear. If you'd like to have a go without me, I can wait here." "Nonsense. I came here to be with you. I can fly at home. Besides," she said putting her arms around him and pulling him close, "I'm freezing." "I don't wonder. You're nearly soaked." The spray from her pass at the waterline had wet her breeks and jumper, and her hair was plastered against her face in wet tendrils where it had come loose from her plait. Her nose and cheeks were bright pink from the cold, and her eyes were watering from the wind. He thought she looked perfectly beautiful. He drew his wand and cast drying and warming charms on her, holding her cold hands in his, bringing them to his mouth to blow gently on her numb fingers. "Thank you," she said. "I hope I didn't overtax you. If I go too fast or too high, you must let me know." It was an odd feeling to find that there was something she did better than he, but she found she liked it. "I will," he said. "I'm afraid I've never got very good at flying. I don't have much reason to do it often, so I'm out of practice. You, however, look like you were born on a broom." "I was, practically. My father isn't much for flying, either, but my gran loved it, and she took Einar and me for rides from the time we could walk." "I didn't learn until I came to Hogwarts. My mother had never learnt, and my father thought brooms were a waste of money, I'm afraid." "Your mother never flew?" she asked, surprised. "No. She was Muggle-born. Flying wasn't among the things the witch who gave her her magical education taught her." The afternoon was becoming full of surprising information. "Didn't she go to Hogwarts?" asked Minerva. "No. My grandparents were unconvinced that a magical school would offer a proper education for a young girl. They were shopkeepers, only a generation out of the mines, and I think they were very anxious to give their daughter the kind of education their own parents could never have afforded. My mother was sent to a fine girls' day school—a Muggle school—outside Llandovery. But to my grandparents' credit, they did ask Headmistress Wilkins to recommend a magical tutor for my mother. Apparently, she found them an excellent one. My mother always spoke very highly of her ... the daughter of Dilys Derwent, if I recall correctly. That's how my mother met my father. He was apprenticing with the younger Madam Derwent, and she enlisted him to help my mother with her Potions work. She took to the subject, and, apparently, to my father," he said with a grin. "Your mother must have been a remarkable woman." "She was, in many ways. Much like your father, she taught us from the best of Muggle science, philosophy, art, as well as magic. But ..." "But what?" she prodded gently. He had never spoken much about his family, other than the terrible story of his mother's and sister's deaths, and Minerva was eager to know as much as she could about the complicated, fascinating wizard she loved. "She was quite shy. A loner, one might say. Not that there's anything wrong with that, but I think it worked to her disadvantage. She didn't make friends easily, and not having grown up in the magical world, she might have benefitted from close friends who might have eased the transition. I think one of the reasons she chose my father was that she knew he had little interest in, or indeed, opportunity to mix with pure-blood society. The Dumbledores were well regarded, but their social standing and financial circumstances weren't like those of the Blacks, or even the Prewetts. He had a bit of money from his family, but my father was a simple man. All he wanted was to run his small apothecary in a little village where he could be of some use without having to pander too much to high society. Fortunately for him, a quiet life in Mould-on-the-Wold suited my mother to the ground." Minerva wondered silently what Percival Dumbledore would have made of his famous son. "After we moved to Godric's Hollow," Albus continued, "my mother became even more reclusive, for a variety of reasons. We didn't have much contact with other magical families. I was fortunate to have Bathilda Bagshot as a neighbour—" "Bathilda Bagshot? The magical historian?" "Yes. She lived next door. Still does," he said, and Minerva realised that the famous scholar must have been the "Bathilda" Aberforth had referred to all those years ago when he had arrived unexpectedly at the cottage in Godric's Hollow. Albus said, "She helped take charge of our early magical education. It was through her good offices that I met Griselda Marchbanks, who became something of a mentor later on—as you know." "Yes." "A witch of great intelligence and talent, is Bathilda, but she was more interested in the theoretical aspects of magic than in its practical applications, like flying. So I'm afraid I didn't ever get on a broom until my third year at Hogwarts. Elphias Doge was kind enough to teach me, but," he said with a chuckle, "I'm afraid Elphias isn't much of a teacher. I never did learn to fly properly—as you've just seen." "Well, if you ever want a real flying lesson ..." said Minerva. "No, thank you, my dear. I'm content to muddle along as I do, with my feet on the ground and my head in the air." "If you think you're ready for another go, I'm getting hungry." They flew back to the deserted beach at Staffin and returned to the hotel. After a late lunch, they retired to their room, and Minerva said, "I think I'd like a bath. I never feel really clean after using a charm. Besides, I'm still a bit chilly." "As you wish, my love." "You know," she said, approaching him as she unbuttoned her cardigan, "the tub is big enough for two, if you'd care to join me for a soak." "A fine idea, Professor McGonagall." He moved his hands to help her finish her buttons. "Shall I help you with these Muggle things, then?" "A fine idea, Professor Dumbledore, provided you allow me to return the favour." Five minutes later, they were submerged in fragrant hot water, Minerva resting against Albus's chest as he soaped her shoulders with a large flannel. When he had rinsed them, he moved on to her arms, lifting one, then the other, running the soapy cloth up and down their length. He next tended to her belly, making small circles, moving ever lower, until her reached her centre. Instead of lingering there, however, he took her right leg behind the calf, bringing it up towards them so he could run the flannel over the smooth skin of her leg. "You have the longest legs I have ever seen," he remarked as he washed it. "My gran used to say I was like an Abraxan foal: all arms and legs akimbo." "Surely not akimbo." "Oh, yes. I was not always the graceful gazelle you met at Hogwarts. It took me a few years to grow into my limbs." "Such lovely limbs," he said, urging her to bend her knees so he could reach her ankles and feet. When he threaded the flannel between her toes, she couldn't help flinching. "Ticklish?" he asked. "Not especially." She jumped when he did it again. "But when you do that ..." He released the right leg to tend to the left, and when he was done with that, he moved the flannel up to circle her breasts, moving from one to the other. When he had finished washing them, he Accio-ed his wand from the vanity where he had left it and used it to turn on the hot tap, sending the flannel across the tub to rinse it in the hot water. He Summoned the steaming flannel and laid his wand on the floor next to the tub. He wrung the flannel out and laid it quickly over her left breast, making her gasp; it was hot almost to the point of being painful, but a moment before it became unbearable, she felt the whisper of his magic and heard his voice murmuring, "Frigero." The flannel suddenly grew very cold, and she felt her nipple contract to a hard point. The intense sensation sent a mixture of painful and pleasurable signals straight to her sex. She hissed. "All right?" he asked. "Mmmm." He removed the flannel and dipped it back into the bath water, warming it, and laid it across the other breast. He moved his hand over it, the rough texture of the flannel pleasantly stimulating her nipple, as he moved his other hand down to rest against her centre. She was trembling with desire now, but he kept his hand infuriatingly still. His lips kissed a short path to her ear, and his breath was warm and moist and heavy as he sucked her earlobe between his teeth and flicked his tongue lightly around the shell of her ear. "Tell me what you want me to do to you," he whispered. "Whatever you like," she breathed back, arching her hips. "No, tell me," he insisted. "I want you to touch me," she whispered. "Touch you how?" "Like this ..." She surprised him by putting her hand over his, guiding him to her sex. "Ohhh, yes," she moaned, "just like that." "You like this?" he breathed in her ear. "When I touch you this way?" "Gods, yes," she said, her hips emphasising the assertion by bucking up into his busy hand. Her breath gradually quickened until all she could do was gasp, the muscles of her abdomen contracting and her legs trembling as he pleasured her, her hands clutching, white-knuckled, at the sides of the tub. Her entire body seemed to convulse as she screamed out his name in her ecstasy. He stopped moving but held her in place as she gradually relaxed and her heaving breath eventually slowed. When she let her head fall back against his chest and opened her eyes, he was smiling down at her. She sighed contentedly. "You are a wicked, wicked wizard." "Am I?" "Very." "But I am your wicked wizard." "Are you?" "Entirely." "'S good," she murmured. "I think we'd better get out before we both fall asleep right here," he said. "It would be most inconvenient for the hotel staff if we were to drown." "Oh, very," she agreed. She rose and stepped out of the tub. "Wait a moment, "she said as she wrapped a towel around herself. "We managed to get quite a bit of water on the floor. May I?" she asked, indicating his wand, which still lay on the tiled floor next to the tub. "Of course, my dear." She took it up and Vanished the small pool of water that had gathered under the tub. As he got out, she took a towel from the shelf and held it for him. She put another towel over his head, massaging his scalp as she dried his damp hair, using it to gently wring the excess water from its length. He said, "Thank you, my love," when she removed it, and he moved to finish drying himself, but she motioned for him to stay where he was. "I'm not done yet," she said, running the towel over his wet shoulders and back. She paused long enough to take up his wand again and cast drying and warming charms on the towel, then set to work on his arms, moving down one, then the other, next moving up to run the towel over his chest. She ran one hand over it, following it with her mouth, giving each nipple a playful swipe of her tongue, then planting light kisses over his pectoral muscles and down his abdomen to his navel. She noted with satisfaction that the towel covering his midsection was conspicuously tented in front, but she didn't dally there. Instead, she knelt on the floor and moved the towel down one leg, then up the other, repeating the action until his legs were dry. Dropping the towel, she followed the path she had just taken, moving her palms slowly up his bare legs and under the towel, snaking them around to the back to cup and squeeze his firm buttocks before running her nails lightly down the backs of his legs, careful to skip over the scar at the back of his left knee. She leant over to kiss and lick at his right ankle, moving her lips and tongue slowly and gradually up his leg until her head was under the towel. Kissing, nipping, and lapping at his inner thighs, she unwrapped the towel from his middle and tossed it aside. As she tended him with her tongue, he began to moan. "Oh, gods ... Minerva ... oh ..." Eventually, she rose and led him to the bed, where he put his talented mouth to work until she was once again trembling on the brink. He moved up her body to lie on top of her. "I want to be inside you now." "Yes," she gasped. He watched her face as he slid into her. She opened her eyes and looked back at him. Neither one moved as they held one another's gaze. They lay like that for a minute, both trembling, until he whispered, "I love you." She was about to say, "I love you too," when pleasure began to spread through her body, seeming to squeeze the air from her lungs, engulfing her until all she could do was exist in this moment, without thought, without breath, without anything but joy, visceral and pure. He saw her face contract, almost as if she were in pain, and felt his own pleasure come upon him. It seemed to go on and on, and for a moment, he thought he might pass out from lack of air. When he finally found some breath, he could only moan, "Ohhh, Minerva ... Minerva ... Minerva," just as he had the first time they made love, years ago. Her eyes were closed and she was gasping for breath. When she seemed to have recovered it, he leant down and kissed her deeply. He released her lips, and she breathed, "Merlin ..." "Indeed," he said. "That was—" "Amazing," they said together. They both laughed, and he moved off of her, gathering her into his arms. They lay quietly for a few minutes until he heard her voice, still thick with sex. "Albus?" "Hmm?" came his sleepy reply. "Have you ever considered hiring someone to teach flying?" "Hmm?" he asked again, slightly confused the sudden change of subject from ... sleep ... to flying. "An instructor. For the students," she said. "I was just thinking about what you said before about not learning to fly until you got to Hogwarts." "If that's what you were thinking about a few minutes ago, I'm afraid I've lost my touch." "Don't be daft. I meant, I was thinking about it before you got my undivided attention. It doesn't seem quite right that Muggle-borns and others whose parents don't teach them to fly for one reason or another don't get the chance to learn. "She shifted over onto her side to look at him, warming to her subject. "I mean, how many Muggle-borns make one of the house Quidditch teams?" "I don't know, but I have a feeling you're going to tell me." "I am: none. This year, at least, there are no Muggle-born students playing Quidditch at Hogwarts. And I can't remember any from my time as a student, can you?" "I've never considered it." "That's just it, no one does. I know it sounds trivial, but it's just emblematic of the way Muggle-borns can be marginalised as they try to integrate into wizarding society. Nobody means for it to happen—or at least, most of us don't—but it does happen. We teach them magic, but you said yourself that it's only part of our job." "So I did," he said, marvelling at the variety of things she could apparently think about at one time. "So you think the solution is to have flying classes at Hogwarts?" "Of course not. But it would be one small, tangible thing we could do to help put Muggle-borns on an equal footing with the other students. Besides, it couldn't hurt to give everyone a basic foundation in flying. Look at the number of accidents we have as it is. It seems as if one or two of my students are missing from class each week due to broom-related mishaps." She was exaggerating, but only slightly. "It's not a bad idea, Minerva. Not a bad idea at all. When we get back, I'll talk it over with Filius, get his thoughts on it. If he agrees, I'll ask him to work up some numbers to propose to the governors." "Oh, the governors," Minerva said, her lips pursing with distaste. "They'll never agree, will they? Muggle-borns are never very high on their list of priorities, I imagine." "That's a bit unfair," he said. "It's true, the majority of the governors are pure-bloods, or close to it, but quite a few of them are sympathetic to the plight of our Muggle-born students." "Well, you know them," she said. He did. And he had to admit, she was right, to a degree. The Hogwarts Board of Governors tended to give the bulk of their attention to matters of curriculum, mostly to ensure that their pet subjects continued to be taught exactly as they themselves had learned them. They paid collective lip-service to helping the less fortunate students with tuition and money for supplies and textbooks—a few of them were quite genuinely committed to the Needy Students Fund—and several maintained what Albus considered an over-active interest in matters related to Quidditch. Which gave him an idea. "Perhaps if we had a flying instructor who could also help train the Quidditch teams," he mused. "Exactly," Minerva said, excited now. "I'm sure having really first-rate Quidditch teams is high on the list of priorities for some of the governors." "Too right, my dear. You know, if I position it correctly, we might even get a few of our wealthier families to make an endowment to fund the position." She leant over and kissed him quickly. "You are a genius." "It was your idea," he protested. "All right then, I am a genius." "That you are, my dear Miss McGonagall. That you are." ← Back to Chapter 40 On to Chapter 42→ Category:Chapters of Epithalamium